The Black
by PavartiJanus
Summary: Mitch Grassi's survival instincts are put to the test as he is placed in an impossible situation; pitted against his best friend and betrayed, he is forced to make a decision. Can he rise up or will he fall? Pentatonix, The Walking Dead, Mitch Grassi, Scott Hoying, Avi Kaplan.


_This is based in the same Pentatonix/ Walking Dead universe I created, and this scene takes place a while after Mitch recovers (See PavartiJanus "Broken"). This was a huge turning point for the Carl (Mitch) character in the show, as it shows a new side to him that we hadn't seen before._

 _I had a lot of fun imagining a weaker character rising from his role as the protected to the protector/fighter._

 _Also, side note: In the show, Carl is gifted his dad's Sheriff's hat, which he keeps with him and wears for the rest of the series. It's his most prized possession. In my story, that hat is actually Avi's beanie._

 _xxx_

The night was black. The creek beside him ran black. The blood coating his fingers and warming the palms of his hands was black. The blade of the knife, shaking in his trembling grip was black. Avi's eyes, staring blankly as death overtook him: black.

Scott couldn't see anything but the black, and could almost feel it seeping inside him and overtaking his heart with the thickness of a black fog, clogging his heart with a strange emotion. He couldn't feel a cohesive, recognizable emotion, but instead felt his eyes glaze with something that blotted out his consciousness. Everything shut off in his mind except the same phrase, repeating itself over and over in his head:

" _You killed him."_

The prickle of someone's presence lifted the hairs on the back of his neck. He turned, focusing on the form who stood about twenty feet away from him. There was hair that shone black. Clothes: black. Eyes; those soft eyes that he loved so much, now hard and steely with distrust and utter betrayal, glistening black in the moonlight.

"Mitch," he numbly heard himself say, rising to his feet and dropping the knife beside Avi's body.

Mitch's eyes fell to where Avi lay, hair tossed onto the grass like a lion's mane, dark blood blossoming on his chest, then moved to Scott's hand, where the limp shape of Avi's beanie dangled from his grip.

"It's not what it looks like, I swear." Sure. That sounded convincing. His voice was blank, emotionless, still stunned into numbness.

But Mitch's eyes brimmed with shocked tears, focusing on Scott again with laser-like intensity.

Scott took a step toward the smaller man.

"Stop," Mitch frowned, a tear escaping from an eye to catch the moonlight in a silver streak as it slipped down his cheek.

"Mitch, I swear I can explain."

He shook his head, "How could you?"

Scott took another step.

Then Mitch raised an arm toward him, his elbow locked and his hand at the level of his shoulder. The hand that gripped the shiny black shape of a gun. "Stop," He repeated, his jaw setting in determination so his heartbreak wouldn't show.

Scott was amazed. This man who could be so gentle, so loving and so… weak, was now capturing him in a staring contest with the barrel of his pistol. He seemed to be damming all emotion, the firm, determined expression hardening his face into something that he'd never seen before.

He was terrifying.

Mitch's thumb pulled the hammer, cocking the gun into action with a click, and Scott could see that he wasn't fucking around. In that moment he realized just how much this world had changed Mitch, and he had no doubt that he could go through with it; he knew he was capable of making this choice, and he trusted him to pull the trigger. And there was no doubt that his bullet would kill him; he was a crackshot. Scott himself had taught him how to fire the pistol that was now leveled at his chest, and had discovered that he was a gifted shot with the firearm, so he imagined that if he wanted to, the bullet would go straight between his eyes.

As for killing his best friend, Scott suddenly knew that he could do it and wasn't simply bluffing. After all, he'd killed his own mother. So he stopped in his tracks, bloody hands raising in defense, "Mitch. I had to do it. You don't understand."

But he didn't know what it was that Mitch was looking at and why he didn't seem to be registering his words.

"Mitch, please believe me," he pleaded, "I would never…"

But his gaze didn't soften. He suddenly looked like he could be a killer and fire the gun despite his sweet heart. Scott remembered that he wasn't the same as he'd been. He was scarred, inside and out, forced to become a hardened version of himself like a callus over his old self. He didn't know it was possible to see those eyes holding so much emotion, and yet be so steely at the same time. It scared him.

But Mitch's eyes weren't fixed to Scott's pleading face. He was watching a walker, creeping closer to Scott's back, ready to sink it's teeth into his flesh. The walker was pale with fresh death, blood still oxygenated and red as it coursed down his t-shirt. It was coming out his (No _it's)_ mouth now, streaming down it's chin.

He was an It now. He wasn't Avi anymore.

But it was his face that stopped Mitch from pulling the trigger. It was a face Mitch was accustomed to seeing in a smile or in caring, earnest conversation, not gaping in bloodlust. It was stepping closer, his bass voice transformed into animalistic groans.

"Please, Mitch." So he didn't hear him. _IT behind him._

His finger trembled on the trigger, knowing what he had to do, but still so frozen. His body was positioned solidly, his left side facing Scott as his arm fixed the gun to the head that loomed ever-closer to his best friend. He had the power to stop this before there were any more deaths.

So he felt his vision turn into a tunnel and his hand steadying until it was rock-solid.

When the gunshot pierced the night, Scott felt a searing pain in his chest and a gasp ripped through him.

But when he clapped a hand to his sternum where he could have sworn he felt the bullet pierce his bone, there was nothing. No blood. No hole. But he heard a sound like a paintball hitting a wall, and a cry like an animal. He spun around to where Avi's body hit the ground, a perfectly round hole in the dead center of his forehead. When he turned back to Mitch, he couldn't see his face. Only a hand holding a pistol, blocking out his expression.

"Mitch?" He gasped in a mixture of awe, shock, and newfound respect. Finally, the hand fell back to his side and the tears flowed freely as Scott rushed forward to envelop him in an embrace.

"What happened?"

"Mitch, take this" he thrust the beanie into his trembling hand, "Avi said he wanted you to have it. Before I ended it."

Mitch took the hat, feeling the remnants of Avi's body warmth in the gray ribbed, bloodstained piece of his past. He pressed it to his forehead and the two collapsed onto their knees in the grass, letting the emotions crash down on them and block out this ruined world.


End file.
